


No Grave (I’ll Come Home)

by a_static_world



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Death, Resurrection, Stucky - Freeform, hozier inspired of course, kind of, oh i’m so sorry, pet sematary inspired kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 02:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: He’d be back.No grave could hold him down.





	No Grave (I’ll Come Home)

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!   
> possible TW for minor emotional abuse  
> enjoy!

It was 3 AM, and Steve Rogers was stone-cold dead on the kitchen floor of his apartment. 

 

His husband found him first, screaming and screaming until the neighbors came running to see what had happened. 

And then they screamed, too. 

 

It was 6 AM, and Steve Rogers was lying in a morgue, oblivious to the fact that the world around him had stopped when he did. 

His apartment had become a vigil site, devoted followers already camping outside as  _ the  _ Tony Stark unsuccessfully attempted to clear the area. 

Inside, Bucky Barnes-Rogers was in shock, surrounded by friends and neighbors he could neither see nor hear. 

 

It was 5 PM the following day, and Captain Steve Rogers was being laid to rest. 

The funeral home had a line out the door. Respects were paid. Widow (Black) and widower (Bucky) were dragged home from the graveside as black-clad mourners filtered out quietly. 

Captain America was dead, and that was that. 

 

It had been a week spent in a haze of grief and tuna casserole, and Bucky was sick of it. He wanted them  _ out _ , wanted the pity to end and the news to stop reminding him of what he’d lost. 

As if he didn’t know. 

As if he didn’t know he’d lost the best part of him, his sole believer, his end and his beginning. 

The end of the line came rather quickly, it seemed. 

 

It was 8 PM, two weeks post-burial, and Sam heard a knock on the door. 

It was Steve’s knock. 

But it couldn’t be. Sam just hadn’t gotten enough sleep lately, what with the whole only-friend-who-gets-it-dying-thing and the comfort-the-widower-of-said-friend-thing. He was wishing for something that wasn’t there, that would  _ never  _ be there, and Jesus Christ would they please stop knocking  _ please _ . 

 

It was 8:06 PM, and Steve Rogers was on his doorstep. 

Waking up underground is  _ not _ pleasant, no matter how cushy the coffin. 

His burial suit was ripped and the whole of him was matted and slicked with dirt and grass, and he was shifting uneasily, peeking over Sam’s shoulder. 

Sam was staring. 

And staring. 

 

It was 9 PM and, for the fifth time that night, Bucky was crying. 

And sitting on Steve. 

Not that he minded, really, it’s just that he’d apparently been dead for two weeks, he  _ really _ stank, and, oh yeah, he was covered in dirt, grass, and coffin ephemera. 

So Steve showered, Sam left, and Bucky cried. 

Again. 

But who could blame him?

 

The next day, the press went wild. The doctor who pronounced Steve dead was fired on the spot for, quote, “illegally engaging in malpractice to falsely assume the state of a national hero.” One doctor told him he’d had an intense fainting spell, another called it a coma, and a third had pronounced him an actual zombie. 

All Steve knew was he blacked out getting a bowl of cereal and woke up in a  _ very _ nice coffin two weeks later. 

But he was back, and life was good.

 

•••••••••••

 

It was two years later, and Steve Rogers was again dead. 

Dropped in the middle of a run, halfway between his home and the local flower vendor, who snapped a photo before calling the hospital. 

Four medical experts pronounced him dead this time, gently breaking the news to Bucky, who stubbornly maintained that  _ he’ll be back _ . 

 

It was another national tragedy, with vigils, services, and another funeral. 

With a tighter coffin. 

For, truly, nobody should come back twice. 

 

One month later, and come back he did. 

 

Steve, but not. 

 

He was  _ back _ , per se, but not himself. 

He looked at Bucky like someone might look at a particularly ugly dog, with admiration and a touch of disgust. He completely ignored Sam, freezing him out only the way Steve could. 

Bucky got them therapy, which Steve-not-Steve treated with chilly indifference. 

But hey, at least he went. 

 

It was 3 AM, and Bucky woke up to a clattering in the kitchen. 

Steve was standing in the center, preternaturally still, loosely clutching a hand that gushed blood, muttering something about a broken glass.  

He sat limply as Bucky cleaned him up, flinching only when Bucky touched him. 

Which was often. 

And made sewing straight sutures extremely difficult.

 

Steve got more violent, never outright hurting Bucky, but not making any effort to reassure him. 

 

The curtains got burned, the plates smashed against the ground, and the forks bent into balls, Steve glaring at Bucky before leaving him to clean it up. 

 

When he wasn’t methodically breaking every single thing he and Bucky owned, Steve sat quietly on the sofa, glassy-eyed and strangely tranquil. Bucky tended to tiptoe around when he was like this, unwilling to startle Steve into another outburst. 

And so life continued, and it was not good.

 

•••••••••••

 

It was 6 AM, six months later, and Steve was dead again. 

For good, too.  

Bucky made sure of it. 

Cyanide, a knife to the jugular, and a bullet in the brain stem. 

 

It was 10 AM, and Bucky was numb. He told Sam someone had broken in, killed Steve while he slept. 

Sam, the clever bastard, didn’t believe it for a second. 

But he was smart, and kept his mouth shut. 

 

They buried Steve for the third time as a pile of ashes in an iron box, encased in concrete, wrapped in a sheet of titanium. 

 

Overkill for all but a man who has died three times. 

 

Bucky didn’t sleep for a week, waiting for the knock on the door, for his husband who wouldn’t be his husband anymore, who would be this  _ thing _ that wouldn’t leave him alone. 

Sam sat vigil with him, and Bucky was grateful. 

 

They waited, and waited, and waited. 

Six months, eight months, ten. 

No knock. 

 

Bucky moved, left New York, found a place in Maine high in the mountains. 

Cold, but it suited him. 

Suited the man he’d become

 

•••••••••••

 

Fifty years later and at last came what he was waiting for. 

A knock on the door. 

A pistol in hand. 

A hammer pulled back. 

A flash, and then there was nothing on his doorstep. 

Blessed, blissful nothing. 

But Steve’d be back. 

No grave could hold him down. 

**Author's Note:**

> i’m back babey  
> it’s been a long long time because i’ve been busy with school and dance and everything but here i am!!   
> please send me any prompts you may have in mind and i’ll write them!   
> ALSO ALSO thank you guys so so much for your support on Questions! it means a lot to me :)


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